


Adagio, allegro

by Anuna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: AU, Established Relationship, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Gift Fic, Introspection, Music, Prompt Fill, Romance, Unreliable Narrator, cellists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-01
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-13 16:46:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/826531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was worried things between them would change in a way that would ruin what they share between their cellos on stage. She was right about the change, but nothing feels ruined. AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adagio, allegro

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ashen_key](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashen_key/gifts).



> Written for my writing buddy **ashen_key** who loves cello music, inspired by her prompt "rain" and music performed by 2Cellos. Alternate universe in which Natasha and Clint are cellists. I'd like to add that my musical knowledge and knowledge about instruments is basic, and I hope I didn't write something horribly wrong in here.

Natasha blinks and pries her eyes open to the sounds of rain beating against the window. _Allegro_ her mind supplies, too insistent for early hour. She closes her eyes. The bed is soft and warm, even more than usually, and she stretches and turns toward the man sleeping next to her. Clint's breathing is steady, calming _largo_ so she buries her face against his chest and he doesn't even stir. She remains like that, listening to symmetric beat of his heart, the full _thump – thump – thump_ echoing under her palm. She remains like that for couple of minutes, until last remnants of sleep are gone. 

She gets up, goes to the bathroom collecting Clint's shirt from last night on the way hoping it would somehow contain his warmth. It doesn't, but it still smells of him, which distracts her from the cold floor boards under her bare feet. She finds her thick woolen socks in the bathroom and pulls them on as she sits on the toilet. The wool is rough and it scratches while she brushes her teeth and observes her reflection. Her face in the mirror shows lack of sleep, but she's not complaining about that. Then she goes to the kitchen, makes herself a cup of black tea (strong) and wanders into the living room. 

Two cellos rest in the middle of the living room, hers comfortable against the far end of her green sofa, and Clint's taking up the space in front of the big armchair. She nears it until she can study it from up close. The strings are all neat and the wood is well cared for, but she can see its age, she can see it's worn, reminding her of an old soldier wearing his best uniform. The wood is smooth to touch though, and she thinks how Clint's fingers look gliding over instrument's neck, how the cello changes in his hands, looking almost like something alive and changing Clint in turn. He looks like a rough man from up close, blunt and unremarkable until he starts playing. 

Between two of them he is the steady one. She is too impatient, too temperamental so it's usually him who summons the melody with his bow, while she picks at the strings or pulls her own bow sharp and firm across them, creating the rhythm. Clint trusts her with it, despite knowing what she is like, or maybe because he knows it, because he knows how much it means to her, that he's willing to trust her with the structure. Clint is one of those musicians who looses himself in the music while she feels like she might fly apart. That's why she looks at him until they reach that moment when they can both let loose and for a moment everything disappears, everything but her and him and the music. He is a good cellist, just as good as she is; he can both follow and lead, and she can let her eyes fall shut when her back starts to burn and her fingers hurt and bleed as music pours from under her fingertips. 

She can lose herself but she won't be lost. Clint will be right there, _right there_. 

Natasha touches Clint's cello. The paint is slightly darker than on hers, and it feels heavier than her instrument. She brings it to her ottoman, along with Clint's bow and takes a seat on the edge, her knees parting and then gently touching the willow wood. She lets the warmth of her body seep into the instrument, touches its side, glides her fingers up along the neck until she reaches the scroll. Then she settles it against herself, its neck over her heartbeat ( _andante_ ) and finds that it fits better than she might have expected it. The bow is heavy in her hand, and unlike hers it's neat and whole. She thinks of Clint teasing her about bankruptcy due to many ruined bows and grins. 

She bows the strings, draws sounds from them and finds the cello perfectly tuned. It's infinitely different than hers in a way she can't describe, but the feeling isn't bad at all. Her hand and fingers create a different sound than Clint's do, somehow lighter, more airy, but it still sounds good. His cello feels good in her hold, steady and reliable like Clint himself, offering her a soothing sound while it rests against her left side. She slips into one of the songs Clint loves to play with her, touches the strings first and then slides into melody - that's when he startles her by touching her shoulder. She sees him smile as she looks up. 

“Hey,” he says, raspy and sleepy, wearing only his underwear. She thinks she should apologize for taking his cello without his permission, but the expression on his face stops her. “Make room,” he says and at first she doesn't understand, until it's obvious that he wants to take a seat behind her. It takes some shifting but then he's behind her; his arms are around her and she briefly wonders if this is how a cello would feel. This is new, nobody has done something like this with her, but Clint knows what he's doing even if he can't see the strings very well. His hands rest briefly on her shoulders, slide down her arms and finally join hers on the instrument. He takes her hand that holds the bow, her elbow fitting into the crook of his arm; and sets his fingers on the strings, high on the neck. She covers them with her own, lightly, lets him set the pressure. She controls the movement of the bow and he supports her, fingers of his left hand against the strings and his cheek against hers. They bow the strings together and the sound changes, becoming fuller, slightly heavier. They continue the song together like that and Natasha feels like she's melting into Clint and into the cello at the same time, like they're three separate entities becoming one melody. They exist as one until the music lasts, _adagio_ of the song biding her to the music and the feeling of freedom and connection she cannot describe and can barely contain. But then it ends, slowly and quietly, just like everything has to end. She feels like waking up for the second time that morning, with a deep breath and her head against Clint's shoulder. 

Natasha turns her head to look at him. He looks different this early in the morning, softer, with more lines on his face and vibrant colors in his eyes. 

He smiles. 

“Good morning,” he says, and that too is somehow different after last night. She was worried things between them would change in a way that would ruin what they share between their cellos on stage. She was right about the change, but nothing feels ruined. Nothing at all. Natasha smiles and Clint kisses her, slowly, but with heat and purpose and her hands start to let go of the wood as her body tunes to his. He sets the cello aside so she could turn to him and continue discovering his body. 

Beneath her palm his heart picks up, _accelerando, allegro_ as she continues to kiss him. 

 

 

* 

Tempo markings meanings:

largo – broadly (very slow tempo)  
adagio – slow, “at ease”  
andante - walking tempo  
accelerando – gradually accelerating  
allegro – fast


End file.
